


biggering

by TheOneKrafter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reincarnation, Self-Insert, guardian-ward relationship(s), house mooton, idk what to tag, oc-insert, that is a threat - Freeform, the protagonist is about to have a lot of wards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29943726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneKrafter/pseuds/TheOneKrafter
Summary: House Mooton is an old and respected house founded before the time of Petty Kings and forever lying in their holding, Maidenpool.Eleanor Mooton inherites the Ladyship of House Mooton after the second brother of two months dies in a hunting accident in the middle of Robert’s Rebellion. She is quite put upon about this.(alternately: local reincarnation unfortunately becomes important due to the universe’s own fuckery. she should’ve ran to essos the second she realized where she was. also, where the fuck did all these kids come from??)
Relationships: Original Female Character(s)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 96





	biggering

Eleanor isn’t, in general, a particularly big fan of funerals.

That’s a common opinion, she’s sure. No one _enjoys_ the ritual bits of mourning the dead, not the viewing, not the saying a few words choked on tears, and really none of the horrible atmosphere. 

It’s probably worse that this is the second one she’s had for a brother in a two month period. Her _last_ brother. 

_Shit._

Said brother’s widow comes to stand beside her, draped in rich black garments similar to her own, only the best for House Mooton. 

“Lady Mooton,” The widow greets. 

“Lady Mooton,” Eleanor responds, wryly. 

They watch on as Willam Mooton’s funeral pyre floats off into the ocean, Eleanor’s hands clasped behind her back as she frowns. 

“He’s...very dead then.”

Eleanor snorts. “Quite.”

Margery, after subtly looking about, making certain no one is paying attention to the two of them, lightly smacks a hand against Eleanor’s arm, scowling. “This isn’t funny! We lie his only inheritors, Eleanor. Two _woman_ inheritors,” Marg hisses. 

Eleanor gives her an annoyed look. “Allow me to enjoy the ambiance before I am faced with the sudden pressure to marry some pompous fool and birth little heirs, dear Margery.” 

“What if my father calls me back to his home?” Margery continues, uncaring for Eleanor’s own plight, the rude woman. 

“He will _not_. You were married for a month, I’d say legally that keeps you a Mooton for the end of time. Besides, what need does a unlanded knight have for widowed daughters in the middle of a war?” Eleanor says quietly, taking a step to wrap an arm around her shoulders. Any onlooker would think it over the fool drifting off to sea right now, but it's fully to reassure her fellow Lady of Maidenpool of her place in her home. 

Gods they are terribly young to be dealing with this. Well, less so Eleanor, if one counts the period of time she wasn’t made to shit in a pot and recite sweet hymns about seven faced gods. 

Oh Earth, how she misses it so. Especially it’s hygiene and plumbing. 

Damn damn damn. She’s Lady of Maidenpool. Margery is Lady Dowager, but Eleanor is the only Mooton by blood left of her house, and it’s expected she take the primary title from the woman beside her. 

Frankly, Margery would probably thank her. She had no interest in governing from a young age, ever since she came to the port city as a ward at tiny seven, missing teeth and pigtails. 

“Since you insist on doing work during such a somber event,” Eleanor says as her brother’s boat pyre sinks into the water. “We’d best hurry back to the keep. We have work to do. Specifically about this fool war.”

Robert Baratheon’s rebellion. 

She’d tried to warn her brothers, sway them to the winning side, but her second older brother Myles was knighted by Rhaegar Targeryon himself, a squire since he was a boy. And Willam, the idiot sinking to the ocean floor right now, well, he followed where Myles walked, despite being the elder of the two. 

She hates that they were stupid. She hates that they are dead. 

She can do nothing for them now, no matter how much her heart aches at being the last of her family in this life by blood. 

She squeezes Marg a little tighter. Not totally alone, at least. Two seventeen year old girls left to run a port city, what could go wrong? Well. Seventeen give or take on her part, but again, not the point. 

They head back to the keep silently, a somber procession as people take a day's vacation from work for the event. 

They don’t really care, Willam was not loved, not even well liked, but the uncertainty of both male heirs gone is likely heavy on all of them. 

Ugh. Patriarchal societies just set themselves up for failure, don’t they?

By the end she heads for what is now her solar, Marg excusing herself to change out of her funeral garb and hide away from any semblance of ruling anything, calling for her maester as she tries to figure out where her brother put anything in the barely used room. 

Maester Lark comes in, peering wide eyed as she finally manages to find some ink in the stupid desk and grumbles unladylike profanities to herself. 

“My Lady, I had not thought you would turn to work so soon,” He says, like a liar. The man has known her since she was ten, frankly he’s learned if anything she’s consistent in her quiet disregard for things she’s meant to care about. 

Honestly, she’s living on extra time right now, she can do whatever she pleases so long as it doesn’t leave her stabbed or burned for witchcraft or whatever it is her septa was saying happens to infidels. 

“Do you know where Robert Baratheon’s army lies most recently?” Eleanor asks instead of answering him. 

“Enroute along the Trident, if most recent reports serve correctly, my Lady,” Lark says. “Why?”

“I want a raven sent informing him of our support, and apologizing but what men we could have pledged fell at Stoney Sept,” Eleanor says frankly, dipping her quill in ink and writing quickly, knowing the man wouldn’t care about pretty scrawl. It’s a lie, most of Maidenpool’s men lie unraised, though standing at the ready for any sort of word from the King, but she doesn’t care for it being seen through. The man slew her brother in battle, chest smashed in, he will not kill more for his cause. 

Lark pales, shutting the door quickly.

“My lady, that would be _treason._ We lie at the edge of the crownlands themselves—!” 

Eleanor looks up, ink streaking her small fingers, pale eyes hard. “I am aware. But I know how to hedge my bets, Maester Lark, and we will not be winning the pot with a man who stole the warden of the north’s daughter and a mad king. Change is here, and I will not have our house be any further decimated by it.”

Maester Lark is silent, tan face locked in an uncharacteristic grimace. 

“Very well, Lady Mooton. I will see it done.”

Eleanor hands him the letter, sealed with the ring passed down her family from the time they were petty kings, from her father to her brother, and now to her.

She’s glad that her damned future knowledge can do this, at least. She doesn’t know if Willam and Myles were always doomed to die, one to a hunting accident and another to this war, but it doesn’t matter now. 

She has Maidenpool to think of, and Marg, and she will not see either destroyed. 

Maester Lark leaves the solar quietly as Eleanor settles in the wooden chair her father had favored, not yet changed by her brother. She needs to look over the family accounts, see what security they have, check when the last census was. 

A mess. This is a mess. Why was she reborn important?

—

Maidenpool is a rich port, the first link from the Riverlands to the Narrow Sea and lies in the middle of the most well trodden road to Kings Landing. And following that logic, the Mootons are rich. Richer than the Tully, their own liege lords, along with the rest of the Riverlands. 

That puts a heavy target on their backs, but right now, it’s just another asset of Eleanor’s to try and do some good for her city and surrounding lands. 

There’s about to be serious unrest, especially with the battle of the Trident around the corner. With the change in regimes will come displaced people in war, uncertainty, and likely more than a few idiots willing to try for more power while the power structure is malleable. 

What does that mean for her, you ask?

Well. First she’s doubling down on her home front. On the half chance the rebellion doesn’t go as planned, she’s openly declaring nothing for either side and quietly doing a census to see how many able bodied men are under her. She can invest in training some more soldiers up after she has numbers. 

After that? Well. Social programs, firstly. 

Eradicating poverty in her little slice of the world would be good, but poverty is complicated. She’ll need to research what the average livable wage is in the city and increasing literacy, at least. State funded boarding houses would be good as well. 

So much work to do. Ugh, at least if she actually does it well she’ll be remembered in the future as that one cool noble with the progressive ideas. 

Eleanor sighs deeply, rubbing her tired eyes with her palms before leaning back and looking up at the stone ceiling. 

There’s a quiet knock at the door, before it opens, revealing Margery. She’s still clad in black, Eleanor is as well as per the allotted time close family is meant to be in mourning in polite society, but she looks lovely regardless.

...she’s going to pretend she didn’t think that last bit.

“Marg, my light, my love,” Eleanor says dryly. “You know, with you taking control of the household and me the city, it’s almost as if we never lost Willam at all.”

“We would be a far happier couple than Willam and I were,” Marg says, handing over a stack of papers. “But woe, my dearest friend was _not_ born a man.”

If only gay rights were a thing here. How sad she is, a lesbian trapped in the Seven Kingdoms. 

She should look into adoptions. Soon. She’s not marrying a man, she’d rather be burned, or whatever it is they do to gays around here.

Hm. Yes she should also look into trying for _that_ social change, though with the foothold the church has in the city thanks to Joqian’s Pool she might need to be...subtle. About it.

“El?”

Ah, she’s too lost in her thoughts.

“They say the priests to the Old Gods once performed same sex marriages,” Eleanor says idly, you know, like a liar. “The Seven faces are a cruel mistress.”

Marg gives her a long look. Eleanor tries not to sweat.

“ _Anyways,_ ” Eleanor says, standing from her chair, looking over the papers she’s been handed. “Hm. That funeral cost less than expected.”

“I’m aware. I made sure of it,” Marg says, settling on a couch shoved against the wall to the side. Eleanor’s father had put it there after an afternoon too many of her coming in to read the books he kept in his solar. 

She misses him.

“Not a half penny to spare for the departed?” Eleanor asks.

“We’re at war,” Marg says, shifting so she’s laying on the long couch. “And, evidently, on the rebelling side. Would you care to explain that decision? You were angry when Myles died, we all were.”

Eleanor sets the papers down, one hand fiddling with the sleeve of her dress. “I told them who I felt would win this conflict, and neither listened. I am angry he is dead, but I have investment in being on the victor’s side. For Maidenpool and House Mooton.”

“You’ve always been weighed with duty haven’t you,” Marg says with a frown. “Your face was so serious when I met you I thought you hated me.”

Eleanor sputters, waving her hands. “ _I could never hate someone I’ve just met!_ ”

“I recall you thinking differently about more than a few suitors.”

“They pranced about like peacocks or snapped a finger and expected me to follow, that is quite different, I assure you.”

“Lies, my best friend is a liar!” Marg says in a false mournful tone, covering her face with one draped hand, before peeking at Eleanor through her fingers. “Lord Blackwood was a catch, I think.”

“Yes I was a fan of the dour disposition Tytos had. We would’ve been happily miserable together,” Eleanor states blandly.

“I can see it now, you, birthing black haired babes who’s first words are ‘Damn Brackens!’. I should’ve married Lord Jonos, then we could’ve been a pair.”

“Every visit would be entertaining, I’m sure.”

There is a brisk knock on the door, and Marg quickly moves to a more proper position on the couch.

“Yes?” Eleanor calls. “Who is it?”

“It is I, my Lady, I have news,” Comes Maester Lark’s voice.

“Come in then,” Eleanor calls back, sharing a look with Marg.

The door opens and shuts quickly, the middle aged man’s hand trembling a bit as he holds out a small stag sealed letter.

“I’ll be damned,” Eleanor grumbles, sliding her thumb under the seal and unrolling the paper, eyes tracing the words.

“It seems we chose a very good time to turn coats,” Eleanor says, holding out the letter to Marg. “Lord Baratheon has defeated Rhaegar at the southern Trident, east of the Saltpans. He’s calling what allies left unraised to join him in capturing Kings Landing.”

“By the gods,” Marg says, standing and handing the letter to Lark. “Well done, Eleanor.”

“Well done indeed,” Lark says to himself as he reads. “But will his victory at the Trident mean victory in taking the capital?”

“The heir to the throne, the man who started this mess, lies dead,” Marg counters. “I’d say Baratheon is the sort to finish the job, though.”

Eleanor begins pacing, glad at least that the most of this mess is done.

Hm, what if she send her men and then the wildfire ends up blowing? 

Ah, they’ll have bigger problems if Jaime Lannister doesn’t live up to his honor. Damn it all, she’s raising her banners.

“Lark, please bring Ser Oscar, as well as the Steward. We need supplies and men, yesterday,” Eleanor orders, pausing her pacing only to give Maester Lark a serious look, before returning to her desk and pulling out a few new sheefs of paper. 

“I’ll take my leave,” Marg starts, heading towards the door after Lark.

“No, no you have a better head for numbers than me. Would you mind helping with the calculations while we have this...lovely, meeting?” Eleanor asks, standing and pulling a chair to sit beside hers at the desk.

Marg grimaces, but does as she asks, settling.

“Ser Oscar won’t be pleased.”

“Ser Oscar is pleased by nothing, frankly an opportunity to wet his blade might mellow him.”

For the next few hours there is a sudden burst of energy and movement in the keep and Maidenpool, a sudden call to arms and the people being made aware of House Mooton’s new allegiance. 

If there are naysayers, they say nothing where the guards can hear, though it isn’t likely there are many. The Targaryons are not well loved by Maidenpool, not since one of their Queens was almost assassinated in Jonquil’s pool. Incest is still a...touchy subject, for many in Westeros. A gross peculiarity reserved only for pale haired, violet eyed dragons in human skin. Hence a queen almost being murdered while pregnant with her brother’s child in the pool reserved for “pure” women.

 _Regardless_ , her brother had been expecting that he’d need to raise an army before her died, if for the opposite side, so the process is relatively painless if tedious. Swords and armor need to be delegated, supplies gathered, widow’s funds set up in advance for every man enlisted, though she’s not the only one praying most won’t be needed. 

Work. It is a grand amount of work. But Eleanor isn’t going to be one of the fools not involved in this conflict even if she came in late. Though, frankly, her lateness can be attributed to her only just inheriting. She _did_ pledge to the cause immediately after she gained her titles. 

By the end of the week she has seventeen thousand men, _jesus fucking christ her city and surrounding lands are bigger than she thought and she hasn’t finished that census,_ and has kept most of her farmers and essential men in place at home. Go her. She made a fairly good recruitment campaign with the high pay she's offering.

( _They’re sellswords, she’s very aware a lot of them are sellswords. It's a win if men who sell their skills but keep their lives choose to be under her command._ )

Don’t ask how she managed to organize them in a week, she doesn’t know, and she blames Ser Oscar’s uber serious hidden glee at getting to lead an army in his older years. 

Robert’s army is swooping from the Saltpans to Maidenpool to take the road to King's Landing, so now is just the waiting game to get her men picked up.

Picked up. It’s like they’re going to school instead of going off to take a city. 

They’re arrival is estimated in two more weeks, so within that time her only orders to the soldier’s superiors are to try and train the more green warriors up enough that they don’t die, along with some basic first aid.

The last one is probably unexpected, field medics are under utilized in Westeros, the field of healing seemingly “reserved” for the Maesters, but if she’s going in late she’s going with style. Her men are clad in good armor, well supplied, and she intends to bring them all back. So. Training some field medics it is.

The riches she’s inherited are going to good use. Willam is rolling in his watery grave.

Speaking of, the training is being overseen by only men Maester Lark trusts to actually teach the pamphlets she’s made. Cleaning wounds, compression, and other shit she half remembers from another life.

She doesn’t expect two weeks to do overly much, but the trainers are headed off with the army, so there’s at least a hope they keep it up.

Then there’s the preparing for a feast, just in case Robert is intent on a break from conquest before he heads away. She already needed copious moontea on hand just to be able to provide family planning for her women on staff, now she just has a good reason to order it. 

Hm. She should look into less gross ways to make condoms. The only kind as of current involves pig intestines and hope. 

Eleanor leans back, sighing. 

Candlelight glows soft in the solar she’s been practically living in the past week, and she’s fairly certain she’s been wearing the same dress since yesterday.

...It’s a good thing she’s known for her strange cleanliness and unreasonable bathing schedule- well, no, that’s a lie. In Maidenpool, and only in Maidenpool in her experience, cleanliness is associated with holiness, thanks to the pool she and all her ancestors can’t avoid not bringing up for more than a day. The damned sweetwater pool is central to the local culture; it's not her fault. 

Ugh.

She’s going to sleep, and she’s going to sleep for twelve hours _at least_. No one is stopping her. 

\--

The day Robert Baratheon’s army is spotted enroute a few miles away is the day Eleanor tries not to regret all of her previous life decisions. 

She was at Harrenhall, practically everyone in the realm was at Harrenhall, she’s interacted with him a total of once in passing, she doubts he even remembers her name. She wishes she had the luxury of forgetting his.

She should’ve ran to Essos when she could, this is going to be a mess or painless and she’s leaning towards mess. Especially with the entirety of his forces at his back, some _thirty thousand_ men.

She gives the men technically under her command a morale boost while they wait, or at least what she hopes is a morale boost. As their liege, traditionally she or one of her children would be leading them into battle. As is, she has little military training outside of archery and horsemanship, she would be a hindrance. So, the next best thing is a rousing speech and promises that any woman left widowed or child orphaned _will_ be taken care of in honor of their sacrifice. With an emphasis that she doubts they’ll die.

Eleanor is not built for the more public parts of leadership, especially not with how...serious, her counterparts are in Westeros. She’s blunt, casual, and not exactly skilled in public speaking.

That being said, she makes sure to sprinkle in promises of bonus pay for every civilian they protect. Does it turn some heads? Yes. Does she care? No. She’s a weak hearted woman, blah blah blah, of course she wants them to keep the war crimes down.

Once again she is glad for her generations heavy coin purse. She’s no Lannister, nobody is a Lannister, but again. Main trade hub between the Riverlands and the capital, along with the main link to the Narrow sea. Kaching kaching.

She also quietly makes it known in a private meeting with the battalion leaders, the men in charge of a thousand men each, that rapers are having their pay cut. She doesn’t specify how much, but she’s certain the look on her face is enough to translate her ultimate displeasure with any who will require a pay cut.

With that, she sends a runner asking if Baratheon is barrelling through to Kings Landing or resting for a moment to restock on supplies, and then promptly naps in Marg’s chambers, where no one can find her for an hour or two.

...alright it was three hours, but she left in time for the runner’s return. That’s all that matters.

“Afternoon, Mister Tommard,” She says in greeting to the panting man, waving a servant to give the poor guy some water. His message is placed in her hands and she opens it quickly.

“Damn, well, at least I prepared supplies in advance,” Eleanor says with a sigh, looking to the quiet servant, Danelle. “Danelle, tell Steward Ronnel Lord Baratheon is resting for two days here.” 

Dannelle nods once, before quickly leaving the Solar. Tommard, barely older then Eleanor, moves to stumble out before she stops him. “Don’t be a fool, sit on the couch before you have a heart attack.” Eleanor shakes her head, settling at her desk and looking over a few petitions from the smallfolk. “And you don’t have to talk, focus on saving your breath.” 

Petition number one is a farmer, rightfully pissed that when the now deceased Prince’s army came charging past towards the Trident they burned and pillaged his fields. He wants compensation. She approves it easily, writing a note to the side to set aside some percentage of their already in place crop taxes for this purpose for the next time.

Petition number two is a- why is she being asked directly to approve a divorce. Don’t they already have people in place for that? Or was it the Sept who handles it? Damn, she can’t remember. Well, it _is_ a legal construct before a religious one. A man is unsatisfied with his wife’s inability to have a child- oh it’s just some poncy merchant, _that’s_ how it got on her desk. 

Ugh. She approves the request, but attaches a request to the page for her steward to seek out the wife so she can speak to her herself. Frankly, the woman is better off divorced from him, but she can negate the harm to her after that by trying to find her employment at the keep.

“Um...Lady Mooton?”

Eleanor looks up with a startled blink, suddenly remembering there is another person in her solar with her.

“Oh, Mister Tommard, are you feeling better now?” Eleanor asks, taking in the nervous looking young man on her couch. 

“Yes, very good, milady, I was wondering if I may...go? Now?”

Ah. Right. This is like being called to the CEO’s office as a desk drone. No wonder he’s nervous. 

She forgets, at times, that she is now in a terrible place of privilege. She should endeavor to remember from here forward. 

“Of course, of course-!” She starts, before remembering. “Ah! Wait! May I ask you a few questions on your current living conditions and happiness with your employment?” She asks, quickly pulling out a few new bare sheets of paper. “Oh, this isn’t a trick nor am I, well, doing anything ill to you. I simply have been meaning to ask someone who is actually apart of the smallfolk about what the smallfolk need most.”

Tommard looks overwhelmed. Hm, that was a bit much, wasn’t it?

“Er, would you like to have a chat?” Eleanor tries again, slower this time. 

“I...suppose?” Tommard says, though it is more like a question. He sits back down on the couch and continues to look nervous. 

“Great, wonderful, ah, to start, do you know how to read and write?” Eleanor starts.

“I learned from the septas when I was younger how to spell my name, but that was all,” Tommard says, a flush growing on his face. “Us smallfolk aren’t needing the written word like you are, milady.”

“I would argue everyone should have a right to the written word, but I do not think not being able to read is something to be embarrassed about,” Eleanor says, not very sure how to reassure the man she’s not doing this to kick down, or anything. “How many people of your station do you know who can read?”

“Ah, none? I suppose? Merchants will fuss about but I was born at the docks. No need for it for my ilk,” Tommard says. “May I...ask why you would like to know, milady?”

“I’m interested in creating schools for the common folk,” Eleanor explains easily. “It isn’t right that just because I was born in a castle and you at the docks I am the only one allowed to read.”

The rest of the conversation is still a bit awkward, but Tommard noticeably brightens when she mentions what changes she’s hoping to make for the smallfolk. After about an hour they bid goodbye, her handing him a note to give to his superiors to let them know she was the one keeping him behind for so long, and him thanking her for the bare minimum of asking about what he thinks the smallfolk need most.

Eleanor feels ill, at times, thinking of her position over theirs. She is the oppressor, she deserves no praise for removing the boot from any of their necks.

Then, of course, she is notified of Robert’s arrival.

Dear old gods, let these two days go quickly so she can get back to more important shit.


End file.
